Chapter 17 Crimson Snow #4
He gave a shaky laugh—half delight, half nerves—then dipped down, licking a slow, filthy stripe from base to tip, teasing the head with the flat of his tongue before wrapping his lips around me.
The heat, the suction, the pressure—nothing in my life had prepared me for it.
I groaned, head dropping back, hand fisting in his hair, not to control but just to anchor myself, to believe this was real.
He took me deeper, slowly, mouth stretching around the width, breath huffing out through his nose, the tip of his tongue working in small, desperate movements as he fought to take more.
He gagged a little, pulled back, then pressed on again, refusing to look away, eyes locked to mine even as tears pricked the corners from effort.
“Fuck, you look so good like this,” I rasped, watching my cock disappear into the wet heat of his mouth. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, Art—”
He moaned around me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my gut, making me buck helplessly.
Saliva slicked my cock, smeared his chin, glistening in the low lamplight.
He drooled over me, letting it drip down the shaft, then pulled off with a filthy slurp and spat thickly onto the head, spreading it with his palm before going back down, swallowing me deeper.
He sniffed at the base again, inhaling like he needed the scent to breathe, then sucked one of my balls into his mouth, tongue swirling, hands stroking up my thighs, squeezing, claiming.
He mouthed at the soft skin, then licked back up, pausing to tongue the slit, tasting the salty precome, humming his approval.
“More,” I gasped, barely able to hold still. “Please, Art—need you—”
He gave it to me, sinking down, lips stretching, cheeks hollowed as he sucked me deep, hand stroking the base in rhythm with the slide of his mouth.
The sight was almost unbearable—Art on his knees, worshipping me, glasses fogged, hair a mess from my hands, jaw working as he tried to take every inch I gave.
The sounds—wet, obscene, needy—filled the small room. Every time he gagged and swallowed, every gasp for breath, every wet slurp and hum of satisfaction, it all drove me closer to the edge.
He pulled off just long enough to spit on my cock again, messier this time, saliva running down the shaft to pool at my balls, then dragged his tongue through the slick mess, groaning like he couldn’t get enough.
“Fucking hell,” I panted, watching him work me, every muscle drawn tight with need. “You’re going to ruin me.”
He looked up at that, smile crooked and wrecked. “That’s the idea.”
Something broke loose inside me then—a feral, hungry thing that didn’t care about the world beyond these walls. I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over his slick, swollen lips, and tugged him up, up until he was kneeling between my legs, eyes still wide and shining with awe.
“Open your mouth,” I rasped. He obeyed instantly, lips parting, tongue out—hungry, desperate for anything I’d give. God, I wanted to see him wrecked, wanted to brand him with every filthy thing I could dream.
I leaned in, spat onto his waiting tongue, slow and deliberate. Watched it glisten there, watched him shudder and swallow it down without breaking eye contact. The sight, the raw need in him, made me harder all over again.
“Again,” I growled, and he opened wider, wanton and obedient. I spat again, wetter this time, the sound loud in the quiet room. He swallowed with a whimper, hands fisting in the sheets as if he couldn’t bear not to touch me.
“You like that?” I asked, voice rough with disbelief and desire.
He nodded, throat working, eyes pleading for more.
I spat a third time, letting it dribble down his chin, and thumbed it across his mouth before pulling him into a filthy, bruising kiss—my spit, his spit, all of it shared between us, a communion as sacred as anything I’d ever known.
He moaned into my mouth, greedy and pliant, grinding down in my lap, cock hot and hard against my thigh.
“Take your clothes off for me,” I ordered, voice shaking with the effort of holding back. “I want to see you. All of you.”
He shivered, breathless, and sat back on his heels, hands moving to undo his own trousers.
His shirt was already open, chest flushed and shining with sweat where I’d kissed and bitten him.
Now he fumbled with his belt, a little clumsy in his urgency, eyes never leaving mine as he pushed the fabric down over his hips.
Underwear—plain, thin, just enough to hide the shape of him—clung to him, the outline of his cock bold and dark, the front already wet.
I reached for him, hooked my fingers in the waistband, and pulled them down slow. He lifted his hips, baring himself inch by trembling inch—pale thighs, downy hair, flushed cock, heavy and leaking. The sight of him, open and vulnerable, wanting this as badly as I did, nearly undid me.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” I muttered, hands mapping his thighs, spreading them wide so I could kneel between, pressing kisses to the inside of his knees, biting at the tender skin until he shivered and moaned.
I mouthed up his thighs, slow and hungry, licking sweat and salt, nuzzling the crease where leg met groin, inhaling the scent of him—musky, sharp, uniquely Art.
He trembled under my hands, fingers winding into my hair as if to steady himself, but he didn’t guide, didn’t rush. Just let me have him, offered himself up, trusting me with every breath.
I licked a stripe along the base of his cock, feeling it twitch against my tongue, then mouthed his balls, sucking them one at a time, letting them rest heavy on my tongue, hot and silken and utterly his. He whimpered, voice cracking, thighs trembling on either side of my head.
“Oh—Tom, please—God—”
I hummed in response, letting the vibration ripple through him, then spat thickly on his cock, watching the slick drip down the length, making him even wetter, even messier. I stroked him with my palm, spreading the spit and precome, watching his chest heave, his head fall back as he groaned.
“Look at you,” I whispered, kissing the head, flicking my tongue through the slit, gathering every drop. “So fucking beautiful. So good for me.”
He looked down, eyes wide and glassy, and the sight undid me all over again.
I took him into my mouth, slow and greedy, swallowing him down until I could taste his need, feel the pulse of blood and want on my tongue.
I bobbed my head, sucking hard at the crown before dragging my mouth down, tongue swirling, nose buried in the dark hair at the base.
He choked on a moan, hips rolling, hands gripping the bedsheets so tight his knuckles went white.
I pulled off, letting his cock fall against his belly with a wet smack, then spat again, letting it drizzle over the head and run down the shaft. I stroked him, slow and filthy, watching every muscle tense, every breath stutter.
“You taste so fucking good,” I muttered, pressing kisses along the shaft, nipping at the base, licking the length from root to tip and back again. I mouthed at his balls, sucking one into my mouth while I stroked him with my fist, slow and relentless.
His thighs shook, whole body arching as I worshipped him—took my time, gave him everything he’d given me, every filthy bit of worship and devotion I could muster.
I pressed my face to the crease of his thigh, inhaling deep, tongue darting out to taste the sweat and salt, nose buried in the scent of him.
He sobbed my name, hands tangling in my hair, hips rolling helplessly as I licked and sucked, working him up but never letting him tip over.
I pressed my thumb behind his balls, massaging gently, feeling the way his cock throbbed in my mouth. He whimpered, high and desperate, and I licked him again, slow and filthy, savoring the taste, the way he surrendered.
“Please, Tom,” he gasped, voice wrecked, “please, please—”
“Not yet,” I said, pulling back just enough to kiss his hipbone, biting a mark there that would last for days. “You’re not coming until I say.”
He whimpered, so beautifully desperate, cock twitching against his belly, spit and precome painting him slick and shining.
I licked up every drop, letting my tongue linger, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his shaft, over his balls, back up to the head. I spit again, even messier, watching it ooze down the length, and stroked him with my fist, squeezing just enough to make him curse.
“You’re mine,” I whispered, voice dark and hoarse, “mine to worship, mine to ruin, mine to keep.”
I pressed another kiss to the crown, then sucked him deep, hollowing my cheeks, groaning around him until he was shaking, sweating, pleading for mercy.
But I didn’t give it.
Not yet.
I wanted him trembling, begging, wrung out and helpless beneath my hands and mouth. I wanted to remember every second of this—the way he tasted, the way he sounded, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer he’d never dared to speak.
And so I kept going—slow, hungry, worshipful—devouring him, drawing out every broken sound, every trembling breath, until we were both lost to the storm inside us, desperate for release but refusing to let go just yet.
I wanted this night to last forever.
But I wanted him even more.
When I finally let his cock slip from my mouth, spit-slick and flushed, Art collapsed back onto the bed, panting, trembling, eyes glassy with hunger.
His hair was a wild mess, cheeks streaked with tears, lips red and swollen from biting back sounds no one had ever pulled from him before.
He looked utterly wrecked, beautifully ruined, and I still hadn’t had enough.
I rose up over him, bracketing his hips with my knees, and grabbed his jaw, kissing him hard, letting him taste himself on my tongue.
He moaned, arms winding around my shoulders, desperate to keep me close.
I kissed him until we were both breathless, until the need pulsed between us like a live wire.